The skinny on bomb implants

News that terrorists will be soon be smuggling bombs surgically implanted in their bodies has me again realizing I have commitment issues.

Where do they find these zealots? Where do they find these doctors? Is this sort of procedure covered under the new health care law?

The Republicans will go ballistic if they find out really going ballistic is addressed on page 1,293.

My body is my temple and I’m picky about its desecrations. No matter the cause, I’d never smuggle a subcutaneous explosive device to a public event.

I save my zealotry for screwing millionaire mullahs -- or is it moolahs? -- who charge $8 for warm domestic beer at professional sporting events.

It’s impossible to count the number of times I’ve inserted beers and liquor in my body and surreptitiously sneaked them into various Pittsburgh sports arenas.

Of course, I don’t surgically insert them. I pour them in my stomach before entering the buildings (and, as always, thoughtfully recycle the cans). I’d never dream of going to some back alley quacks to have them zipper full cans in my hip for halftime removal.

Unless they’re talking about a single stick of dynamite, the scheme sounds to me as farfetched as it does impractical.

The whole thing again convinces me jihad recruiters must be diabolically persuasive.

“We want you to join the movement!”

“Yes!”

“We want you to be prepared to sacrifice!”

“Yes!”

“We want you to see Dr. Zawahari tomorrow at 10 a.m. He’s going to remove a kidney and fill the vacancy with TNT. If that doesn’t kill you, we want you to board the red eye to London and detonate your new explosive kidney over the Atlantic. Cool?”

“Uh, couldn’t I start by just firing up the internet chat rooms and work my way up?”

And you thought airport pat downs were already too invasive.

A radio report said specially trained dogs will be deployed to the airports to combat the threat. I heard this and immediately thought of my old dog, Casey. A sweet, aggressively affectionate golden retriever, he’d be perfect.

Then I learned I’d misheard. They were talking about bomb-sniffing dogs.

Casey was a bum-sniffing dog.

Still, a dog like him would be perfect in tedious security lines.

Think about it: any doctor who’d agree to perform this procedure couldn’t possibly have the refined skills of the pros who work at places like the Mayo Clinic.

After all, what they’re doing is a clear violation of what Homer Simpson calls their hippopotamus oath.

So if you’re going to get a dangerous explosive implanted in your torso, timing is key. You’re likely going to go on a beeline in still-tender condition from the operating room straight to the airport.

That’s when you’d say hello to Casey.

I always enjoyed introducing Casey to refined and dignified women (I had that rarified opportunity, I think, twice).

“Oh, what a beautiful doggie!” they’d gush while bending way over to pet his luscious blonde fur.

Then, quick as burglar, Casey was behind them goosing his snoot in places where only the boldest proctologists go.

The effect was similar to what would happen if a surgically implanted explosive device went off in their rear ends. Their arms would flail, their hair would instantly Einstein and they’d scream in equal parts terror and delight.

They’d emerge from the intimacy looking disheveled, but oddly invigorated.

So a dog like Casey would be an extraordinary boon to airport security.

He’d be sure to startle any would-be terrorists into post-surgical heart attacks.

And he’d appease ACLU busybodies by never racially profiling.

Christian, Muslim, Hindu, it wouldn’t matter. We’d all get a vigorous butt snuffling from a dog I’ll always remember with fond affection.

As security dogs go, he’d be what could best be described as a true asset.

I miss that dog.

With him it was just the opposite.

That dog never missed.

Noah at the wave pool

It was a bit unsettling to be at a popular area water park standing in line behind a man with “Noah” tattooed on his left shoulder.

Could this be the Biblical patriarch who saved humanity from the Great Flood? Did he come to a water park to see all he had wrought?

But I concluded this was not that Noah.

From all the depictions I’ve seen that Noah would have worn a long robe. I’ve never seen any scripturally-derived paintings of Noah sipping a Pina Colada from a coconut on the ark’s Lido Deck in an old Hebrew Speedo.

Perhaps tattoo Noah was a supporter of the National Organization for Albinism and Hypopigmentation (NOAH), the support group for people dealing with that perplexing skin condition.

That would have been surprising, too. Like so many park patrons, his skin was lobster pink.

This Noah wasn’t even wearing any SPF 15.

You do a lot of thinking standing in line to enter a wave pool called Wowabunga!

In this sea of humanity, there’d be much more humanity than sea. I think if people were sentenced to endure what me and multitudes did yesterday the ACLU would file a class action suit.

But if people pay $32 and wait in line to do it, they for budgetary reasons convince themselves they’re having fun.

Well, I sure wasn’t.

I don’t like being amidst that many people when they’re fully clothed.

We’re taught that fashions come and go, but that immutable fact doesn’t seem to apply to swimwear.

It just keeps getting skimpier and skimpier even as our bodies get more and more expansive.

We’ve shed all our humility, but not our love handles.

Now add wave pools to the mix. They’re wonderful fun, but the ocean motion causes already flimsy garments to come undone and reveal parts of the body that should only be seen by paid medical personnel.

What would it take for the full-body one-piece to make a fashion come back? Would unsightly sunbathers don one for a fee, say if we all chipped in?

Doubtful.

Since it doesn’t look like the old one piece is ever going to make a stylish return, then perhaps we’ll have to consider legislative alternatives.

Revealing swimsuits, both male and female, could only be sold with a prescription from a qualified physician.

There’s a reason why most acts of human conception take place in the pitch dark. Seeing what we all look like in broad daylight is a turnoff obstacle to romantic coupling.

Yet there’s something about a public pool that encourages us to let it all hang out.

I have to think if Noah were around to see all he’d wrought he’d be dismayed.

He’d at least have to reconsider what he’d done, that maybe mankind, once so full of promise and vitality, wasn’t worth preserving.

Maybe he’d let the animals go two-by-two to populate the planet, but he’d think twice about unleashing man on a world still bewitched by water.

Sure, lions, hippos and elephants can all act like real animals.

But no one’s ever had to endure watching them adjust a thong after a Wowabunga wave unsettled their goodies.